


Alive But Dreaming

by Carliro



Category: Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: HOLY, ParkPark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carliro/pseuds/Carliro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond existence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive But Dreaming

Long gone is my sight. 

So long ago that I can barely remember the process of processing light. Only the concept of whiteness remains, occasional blank spots in my mind, breaking an otherwise consistent darkness. What could pass as "hues", forming strange cloud or coral-like structures, occasionally manifest themselves in a stream of consciousness, but these are not colours, just the way my brain concepts like the passage of time, and the tumours edging on my neocortex.

In this darkness, though, I have acquired a thousand other senses. All at once, they manifested the moment I closed my eyes, and I couldn't help but scream as my neurons were overloaded by them. To know of electric surges, to know of dark matter, to know of nuclear fusion and water and magnesium not only as well as I knew light and as I still know sound and taste, but also as they occured and will occur throught the entire history of the multiverse, of infinity itself, all at once, that is something to scream about.

Frankly, I am still surprised I can muster a bit of coherence. I guess sapience is a good exaptation for omniscience.

I am alive, am I capable of rational thought. But I chose to not indulge either whim, for dreams are as good a solace as I have, still for the rest of a thousand existences. Dreaming without light is the pantomime of a phantom, playing through with an altered reccording, as if pictures were converted into screams and then into tactile sensations. I would dare to compare this to the translation into Braille, had anyone ever experienced the same direct transition as I have.

New dreams unravel, as my mind desires to create existential streams of its own. I can tell them apart from conscious reality, but only barely, and I suspect that the only true difference is that my mind is in the proccess of generation, as if I it was the reproductive organs of my universe, seeking to propagate its kin. Perhaps that is the reason I am in this state, to be what amounts to the nucleus of a cell, creating more genetic code, more data.

Then I remember that fate does not exist, and I only have myself to blame. I usually giggle at this realisation.

And speaking of that, I feel something. I detect it as a spot in the streams of time, a pin point so long ago. I feel it as a distortion in space, as pressure on earth, as water moving through veins. I analyse it, emerse myself in it, finding each detail of its physical form delightful. Lungs swallowing air, liver processing lipids, tendons straining and snapping. It is fascinating, and I explore further.

It notices me, and its bodily activity increases: adrenalin pumps, tail thrashes, fear settles within its flesh and soul. I find this very amusing, and I send back a biological program, a thought, a message indicating, in no ambiguous terms, that a world of pain and misery would come to this being.

As it gives in to pure despair, I send this information I gathered to another party. It is a more direct, instantaneous affair, as tubes inserted beneath my eyelids - there since I've closed my eyes for good - capture every detail I captured to processing engines. They are quick to understand the thing I've felt, the animal I've found, and in no time a plan is formulated by my servants, my priests.

I heard two screams, that devolve into a series of tortured wails, whimpers, pants, all notes to the music of chaos, the only melody I can afford to enjoy. Oh, and how I enjoy it. I feel the tubes being filled with processed tissues and blood, some in chunks and some melted down and bound together inf leshy pastes, sliding through my body. Through my final and most beloved of senses, I recognise their souls, the individual animist essence in every living cell, and I laugh greatlty and terribly as I corrupt these tissues, filling them with my cancerous seed and sending them to a thousand worlds, violated by darkness and impregnated by despair.

I hear a thousand prayers, from a thousand servants who do my will through fear, through admiration, through lust and through motivations not even I can comprehend. They all cheer, as my genius has rewarded them greatly this time.

ParkPark has a new attraction.


End file.
